Hot of Him

A lawyer, he worked at an insurance company for most of his life. He walked to work every morning in Hartford. CT, often composing poems. Though he attended Harvard, he never went back to academia.

In order to get revved up for Wallace Stevens week or because I have been revving on Stevens and came up with the idea for the week, I can’t help but spill some words about the poet. First, I want to thank that perspicacious and thorough reader John Madera. A few months ago he told me he’d read all of Stevens, twice. Now, what would possess someone to do this? Stevens did. I had to see what it was about. First I concentrated on Harmonium, Stevens’s first book, one of William Gass’s Fifty Literary Pillars. Published in 1923, Stevens was forty-four when it came out. Some poems were published up to eight years before but he waited. It is a wondrous collage, with very short poems and very long ones and many of the usual suspects that show up in the anthologies: “The Snow Man,” “The Emperor of Ice-Cream.” Many critics were muddled. New York Times review said, “From one end of the book to the other there is not an idea that can vitally affect the mind, there is not a word that can arouse emotion. The volume is a glittering edifice of icicles. Brilliant as the moon, the book is equally dead.”

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Lars von Trier’s Slippery, Sloppy Antichrist


Lars has made some very good movies in his time. Breaking the Waves, Dancer in the Dark and Dogville are all examples of exciting, provocative cinema. And now comes this–thing.

I’m very mixed about this motion picture. Not torn up, not oozing, like after Eyes Wide Shut. There are some beautiful images in this film, the black and white prologue showing an erect penis going into a vagina has to be one of the most gorgeous shots of the sex act I’ve ever seen. The unnamed couple, Willem Dafoe and Charlotte Gainsbourg, then spend the next hour of the movie talking out their grief (mainly hers) after their young son fell out a window and died while they were in the throes of sex during the prologue. The film goes to color and it becomes a weird incarnation of therapist and patient (Dafoe plays an actual therapist). This interplay continues even as the couple goes to a cabin in the woods, their “Eden.” After a few days there, Gainsbourg says she is cured, but Dafoe does not believe her and continues trying to help her breathe, “Five, four, three…”

At times a David Lynchesque soundtrack comes on signaling something weird is going to happen. (Having just seen Inland Empire and being a fan of Blue Velvet, this touch seemed off-putting, as did Gainsbourg’s request to have Dafoe hit her during sex–another obvious borrowing from Blue Velvet.) The weird happenings are somewhat interesting–a deer running with a dead foetus stuck to its behind, a fox that is eating itself and then speaks English to a seemingly reserved Dafoe. He is the only one having these visions (if they are visions). Then, in the attic of the cabin, Dafoe finds Gainsbourg’s notes for a thesis (called Gynocide) she had been writing that doesn’t come to fruition, (film is fuzzy concerning whether it is finished). Arcane pictures, woodcuts in the manner of Dürer, and three never before heard of constellations in the sky called the Three Beggars–a deer, a fox and a crow (don’t worry the crow is coming).

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